Scar Tissue
by tistrust
Summary: The deepest cuts are the ones you don't see. Murdock-centric
1. Chapter 1

Scar Tissue

Summary: The deepest cuts are the ones you don't see.

AN: It's a character study, a really long one at that. I took some liberties with Murdock's past but he's basically a mix of the TV and movie versions.

-/-/-/

Murdock gets nervous in crowds. There's so much noise and movements and swirling colors that he can't keep track of it all. His eyes follow every movement and he can't concentrate on what matters. It takes him several times to understand anything, and even then he is sure that he only gets half the story. His heart pounds to the rhythm of a jackhammer and it gets so bad that he feels the overwhelming urge to run.

It wasn't always like this; there was a time that he could be in a crowd. When he didn't feel like at any moment someone was going to stab him with all the blurring motions. He remembers being in crowds and being able to function in a crowd, but he can no longer recall how it felt to be comfortable in them.

_He was falling, 2,000 feet and falling. Great. Just great. He knew how to fly anything he could get his hands on, but F-16's had a tendency to make him a little more risky than he was normally. Sighing, Murdock made sure that he had his aviators on before ejecting. _

He can't stand it when he can hear the silence breathe.

He can't stand the sound of emptiness; the loneliness of it terrifies him. It throws him back into a place he doesn't want to go. Without noise, he can't help but to listen to the one in his head. It had been so soft at first, just little whispers at the edge of the quiet. It lulled him, kept him calm; kept him from punching the wall until blood dripped from the concrete. So he listened more and the voice helped him.

_He watched his F-16 crash off in the distance; he could still see the flames reaching up for him and the sand bellowing out in a ripple like cloud. Markham was never going to let him live this down. _

_He wasn't landing anywhere near the crash site. A wind had picked up and he was going south east, which was in the total opposite direction of the American base. He wasn't too worried though, his unit knew the moment he went down. Help was on the way. _

He hates being touched. Poked. Tapped. Shoved. Prodded. Jostled. Grabbed. Seized.

He hates the way he jumps and freezes. The way that he is instantly defensive and how he shies away no matter who it is. He can't stop himself from reacting violently and he hates it more because it makes his friends careful around him. They can't be like other friends, who can punch each other in a sign of affection or ruffle his hair or shake his shoulder. They can't do any of that because of the way his breathing hitches, and the way he curls up if he doesn't see it coming.

_They were there before he even landed. Five men, two of them held AK-47s while the other three had pistols. Murdock barely had time to stand before they had him surrounded and started shouting at him in Arabic. He was stripped of his com and GPS. The head honcho took Murdock's Swiss army knife and he saw a brief glint of the red handle just as it disappeared into the Iraqis' pocket. Someone else took his gun and instantly used it to help the rest of the soldiers threaten the pilot. _

_The harness to the parachute was roughly cut off. They roughly pulled his hands together and handcuffed them in front of him. He was grabbed and forced onto his knees, all the while the hot sun baked him, making him feel like he was somehow on display. _

When they demand answers, he has none to give. Although that doesn't mean that he doesn't talk. The first things to pass his lips make no sense to anyone but himself. The more the interrogators want to know, the less sense he makes. It's a nice trick but, boy, does it hurt.

It's a hard habit to break and he still does it even now. Somehow he stabs at the answer and all the while he skirts the issue.

_He was stuffed inside a truck and blindfolded, not that the blindfold mattered much. He was always so bad at directions when he was on the ground. It just didn't make as much sense as it did up in the air. All he knew was that a few hours later they dragged him from the truck and into a building. _

_They stopped suddenly and Murdock stumbled from the momentum. The blindfold was ripped off as a man, who was clearly in charge, marched into the room and started shouting rapid fire instructions. Murdock's Arabic wasn't perfect but he understood more than not. Blinking in the dull light that filtered through the plastered windows, Murdock looked around the threadbare room. There were a few beat up wooden chairs scattered around and one lonely table stood next to the opposite window. Atop the table sat gleaming metal instruments, Murdock couldn't exactly make out what they were from his angle. Glancing upward, Murdock saw a rusted hook suspended on an equally rusted chain which had been bolted into the ceiling. _


	2. Chapter 2

He talks in circles instead of straight lines. Most of his words come out rushed or crushed together, with or without his Southern drawl. He can't stop them from spilling out of his mouth either, he tried once and the voice got louder. It told him things that weren't true - that couldn't possibly be true - so he drowns the voice out with his own. Doesn't matter what he says or sings. Just as long as he could hear his own voice, he couldn't hear the other one.

_They dragged him through hallways that twisted and turned. Murdock was sure half the turns weren't even slightly necessary; but who was he to argue? He still had to hold out both his hands, palms down, to see which one made the letter 'L' when he's told to turn left or right. _

_They stopped him in front of a metal door and as one man opened it, a second man took off his handcuffs, and a third kept a gun trained on the back of his head. He was flung into the room and after two stumbling steps he almost did a face plant on the concrete floor. Murdock staggered up just as the door clanged shut, taking with it all the light. If he hadn't known his eyes were still open, he would have thought that he had closed them somewhere along the way. _

He can't say for sure that his emotions are his own. He remembers how he used to react in situations. He remembers Christmas mornings when he woke up the house at four, running around the house and banging pots and pans together to make sure everyone was up. He remembers curling up between his mom and grandma on Sunday nights, watching old movies and eating junk food. He remembers long summer nights, lazily lying hidden in the tall grass watching the ink black sky and knowing that one day he would go up there.

_He groped in the darkness, following the floor until he hit the wall. Cold, smooth concrete. He followed it all around, found the bathroom (a weird urinal/sink combination) and the bed (a squishy rubber-like square laid on the ground). He used the sink to rinse off the blood that dribbled down his face with his handkerchief, which they had somehow left on him. He couldn't see his bruises but he was pretty sure he was black and purple all over. His ribs were at least bruised, possibly cracked. He might have a concussion with the way the world swayed but he couldn't be sure. With nothing better to do, Murdock practically fell down on his bed and stared into the dark. _

He remembers feeling. But it's not the same anymore. It all feels muted, like touching a knife with velvet gloves. He gets the general shape and weight, knows that it's sharp, useful, and potentially deadly. But he can't feel the cool touch of the metal nor could he grab the handle quite rightly. He remembers that emotions used to fill his entire being, full and bold. But now they are razor sharp, as if he needs them to release all at once or not at all. All the happy, sad, angry thrown out as a violent punch. He doesn't mind too much; he knows it could be worse.

_He wasn't sure how long he was in there before they came back for him. During the hours that he had been able to keep track of, he had noticed that the room was sound proof. Then he had fallen asleep and when he woke up, there was no way for him to know if thirty minutes had passed or nine hours. He was awake for what he assumed was a day; he drank water from the tap, and did a few extremely light exercises in the ten by ten cell, and then he started into the dark. His ribs hurt if he moved too fast or bent over but his muscles were sore and he had nothing better to do. _

_Then he fell asleep again and went through that same routine. Then over and over and over and, somewhere along the line he couldn't tell if it was yesterday or tomorrow. By then the pain had dulled to a minor annoyance. Then the scratching started up, skittering on the cold cement floor and scrapes across the walls. He kept trying to convince himself that it wasn't real, because the door never opened and he knew that nothing else was in there but him. Except the scratching continued. _

He zones out a lot. He's not sure where he goes, but sometimes hours pass that way. He interacts with the outside world, he tells jokes and talks back and is generally the same pain in the ass he always is. But it's like he's a step away from it all. He's riding in the back seat and another Murdock has taken the wheel. Sometimes, he's not sure which Murdock is the right one.

_The scratching turned into growls and Murdock was sure that whatever was in the dark had rabies and probably wanted to maul him. He had squished himself into the corner of his bed a few hours ago and had no intentions of moving any time soon. His butt was numb, his ribs were starting to protest his crouched form, and every muscle felt like they were on fire, but at least with this position, the monster could only attack him from above and in front of him. _

Sometimes he thinks he's already dead. When he was seven he and his best friend, Tommy, went up to the ridge, which was a huge pile of loose gravel and huge chucks of rocks. All of it had been left over from construction workers who had been working on the reservoir. Very steep. Very dangerous. And absolutely perfect for two kids who were bored out of their freaking skulls in the middle of the sweltering Texan summer.

They had planned it for weeks, stashing away snacks and a few bucks, and making sure that their parents knew that they were sleeping over at each other's house so that they could camp the night and come back the next morning. When they had gotten there, Tommy jumped off his bike and ran to the edge. Peering down the boy gasped in awe. Murdock just as quickly followed Tommy but somehow – he'd always been somewhat accident prone – somehow he tripped and pitched forward enough to send him scrambling over the edge. Then there was frantic screaming and Tommy was pulling his arms and Murdock was digging his feet into the dirt trying to find anything to push up on.

He's pretty sure he's dead. The car accident when he was sixteen. That little misunderstanding at that one bar when he was twenty. His brush with pneumonia when he had that side trip to Alaska. His first time in a helicopter – hell, his last time in a helicopter. He probably died a million times over.


	3. Chapter 3

AN: Thanks so much for the reviews so far! They really mean a lot to me. :]

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_Metal groaned and banged, then light so bright Murdock had to clench his eyes closed and bury his head in his arms; otherwise he would surely be blinded. Footsteps, harsh commands. Too loud. So bright. All of it was too much. Rough hands grabbing him up and dragging him out. They took him to the same room that he'd been in the first day he was here and hung him up again, at least it looked like the same room. His ribs hurt as they clanked the chains taunt but Murdock suppressed the moan as much as he could. _

_They started shouting at him in Arabic again. They wanted to know answers and they wanted them now. They knew his name, his rank, who he worked for, what he did, and where he had been._

_CIA? Please, little old me? Are you kidding? No way!_

_At least that's the emotion he tried to convey. They knew he was somehow important. They beat the crap out of him again and he spat a mouth full of blood at one of them. _

He has problems realizing the potential danger in a situation. Or so he's been told by several people who saw his complete disregard of personal safety and deemed him insane for his 'lack of self preservation'. He shrugs it off; it's not a big deal. There's just not much to preserve. He tells them that there's a thin line between insanity and genius. But he doesn't tell them that he doesn't know which side he's teetering on.

_They had left him alone again but this time they had thrown a loaf of bread at him and a dried hunk of meat. They want to keep him alive. He wasn't sure if he was glad for it or not. Listening to the encroaching silence Murdock realized that the growling was gone. At least there was that, finally he didn't have to worry about getting rabies. He crawled to the bed and carefully lay down. He took a breath in, his ribs protested loudly, making Murdock groan and think that a few of them were broken for sure now. His face was a bloody mess and he wished that he had taken the time to rinse out the taste of copper before he had lay down, but he was too tired to get up again. With that he drifted away to a place with shimmering summer heat and tall grass fields. _

He doesn't think about the consequences, he knows he should, but he can't. It's like the line that connects the dots don't match up in his head like they're suppose to. He sees something he wants and he runs for it. It's an admirable quality, though not the best tactic for a busy intersection. He needs someone to pull him back, but he wishes that he doesn't. It makes him feel like a complete basket case after he does something so incredibly dumb, a five year old would know better. But he can't help it.

_There was half a loaf of bread and a quarter of the dried meat left. Had he eaten today? He remembered eating yesterday but…was that yesterday or was that today? He had gone to sleep but he was he going to nap or was he going to bed for the night? _

_Murdock rubbed his head in frustration, this was such a simple answer. Why couldn't he tell? He was hungry and his whole body felt slightly uncomfortable. There was just nothing to do other than to concentrate on the dull pain and the way his insides were eating its self. _

He dreams of days gone and past. The last conversation he had with his father and the day his grandparents had seen him off when he had first joined the military. His fifteenth birthday party when he and Suzie Ann had stole a bottle of champagne and drank it in the back of the barn.

_His waking hours blend in with his sleep. He's not sure anymore how much of anything he experienced actually happened. He had a dream that he was standing in the middle of the cell staring at his bed. There were bugs in it – stupid bed bugs - and they wanted a turn to sleep. So he had to wait, just stand there. That's what they want him to do. At least he thought it was a dream. _

When he thinks of his mother, he remembers long golden locks of hair that twirled around a thin frame. A light scent of lavender which always followed her around, leaving even fainter traces that never seemed to disappear. Her hands were soft but firm from long hours of working the farm and keeping their house. He remembers her voice if he tries hard enough. It was slightly rough but always so warm.

_He woke up in complete darkness, his gasping breaths so loud that they had to be heard around the world. It took a moment to remember that there was no light. After that he wasn't sure if he closed his eyes or not. He didn't know how much time passed since he crashed. It must have been a week at the least, a month at most. He was down to an inch of bread and a bite of meat. That must mean something, he had tried to make the food last as long as possible. He felt like he was constantly starving, at least the sink/urinal gave all the water he wanted. Even if the water tasted like rusted metal, it kept his stomach from complaining too much. _

He doesn't have to try as hard to remember his father. Murdock had known the man until a little after his twelfth birthday. Looking at pictures, Murdock sees where he inherited his unruly hair and hazel eyes. In his mind, many of the physical attributes had faded with time. He forgot the way his dad's eyes would wrinkle up when he smiled and the way his hair was mixed in brown and gray. What he does remember are nights spent staring up at stars and talks about distant galaxies; dusty afternoons with a strong smell of hay clinging to the background as they worked on their old pickup, trying their best to coax a few more months out of it; and mornings when they woke up so early that most of the time they could pretend, if only for a few minutes, that a piece of their family wasn't missing.


	4. Chapter 4

AN: Well, this is the end of it. For Murdock at least, I was thinking of going through each character but as of now, I am undecided. Thanks so much and I hope that this was alright, I don't know why but I thought this was longer. New to writing TAT but I've been reading it for a while now.

/-/-/-/

_The growling was back. This time it seemed angrier. Murdock sat up and backed himself against the corner, despite the fact that he was sure his ribs were going to rip through his flesh if he didn't stay still. Something was there and it wanted to hurt him. He could literally feel the evil coming off of it in waves. Murdock didn't make any sudden moves, but he had to come up with a plan. Anything to get rid of this threat. Grabbing his bit of bread and meat, he threw it into the darkness hoping to somehow strike the creature. Suddenly the growling stopped. _

By the time he had moved in with his grandparents, he had come to realize a few things in life. First and most importantly: people leave, no matter who they were or how much they mattered to you. Two, the pain never goes away, it just stays at this constant, burning rate that you get used to. Third, despite all the pain, there are still people who genuinely care.

_There was whimpering beside his bed and soft, wet licks to his hand. Confused, Murdock pulled his hand away from the wetness sat up on his futon. He absently wiped his hand on his pants and as he did so he felt a lick to his cheek. Murdock instantly flinched back. Something was in here. Something that could growl and wanted to cover him in saliva. Something that smelled like a dog and acted like a dog. Murdock reached out slowly, towards where he thought the creature was. _

He needs help.

_It's not real. A playful bark answers his thought. _

He needs people.

_It can't be real. Another lick to his hand and then one to the side of his face. _

He needs… so much more than the care that a psych ward could provide.

_They never opened the door, except for the last time they took him out and beat the crap out of him. A few tugs on his shirt._

He needs…

_Did the dog sneak in then? A warmth lay next to him, the tail thumping gently against his thigh. _

He's glad for the team. They don't care that he's delusional and paranoid. That he has to constantly sing or talk to himself. That everything in the kitchen has to _exactly_ where he left them. They don't care that he has so much wrong with him that the only thing he could ever offer anyone was a home cooked meal and a ride home. But maybe, maybe that's all the team ever really wants.


End file.
